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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167809">erase me (the words i most regret)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon'>bytheinco_nstantmoon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Julie and The Phantoms (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bobby | Trevor Wilson-centric, Bonding, Childhood Trauma, Drug Addiction, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Good Person Bobby | Trevor Wilson, Hurt/Comfort, Methamphetamine, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Esteem Issues, THIS MAKES IT SOUND SO AWFUL, You might hate me, bobby is not the drug addict, but when i say slightly i mean it so bear that in mind, i gave bobby a whole fuckin' list of problems, i will not be listing them but like. fair warning, its not i swear, just let the himbos love each other, ok have fun haha, ok it kind of is but like, slightly less vague and confusing this time!!, so anyway, sofi gives me headcanons and then i make them worse, that's where all my fics come from, the himbos love each other, there is comfort, what about it lol, wick returns with more bobby angst, yes i stole the title from unsaid emily</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:02:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,583</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167809</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe he’s just a fucking screwup, because for seventeen years, he tries, and at seventeen, he comes crashing down anyway.<br/>-<br/>or; Bobby doesn't want to end up like his family. But maybe he's destined to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alex &amp; Bobby | Trevor Wilson &amp; Luke Patterson &amp; Reggie, Bobby | Trevor Wilson &amp; Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>89</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. bruises on my back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetjulie/gifts">sunsetjulie</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>SO YOU MIGHT HAVE QUESTIONS</p><p>1) molly and ollie are named like that on purpose, yes. don't @ me for it. their mom thought it was cute leave her alone<br/>2) molly, ollie, and patrick are bobby's cousins, zach is his uncle, these characters r more mentioned than anything but if i don't share my thoughts on bobby wilson I Will Die<br/>3) yes they all do drugs</p><p>ok cool. so trigger warnings for drug use, panic attacks, and self deprecation<br/>don't hate me oh my god</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>For seventeen years, he tries. For seventeen years, he says no, he says no, he says no, even when it hurts, even when he has to shout, even when it’s all too much and he doesn’t want to bother anymore. For seventeen years, he fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>tries, </span>
  </em>
  <span>okay? Maybe it’s the genes. Maybe it’s the name. Maybe it’s the empty bank account and the crumbling house and the smoke he has to wash out of his clothes every night. Maybe it’s God, or lack thereof, or maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’s just a fucking screwup, because for seventeen years, he tries, and at seventeen, he comes crashing down anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a few minutes to remember. He wakes up on the couch, scratchy fabric pressing into his cheek, one arm dangling into a bowl of cereal abandoned on the floor. He makes a distant noise of disgust and staggers up, rubbing at his eyes with his clean hand. “Fucking hell,” he mutters. Everything feels kind of faded. Like he had gotten half of his body punched out. His muscles are all aching, though. Ollie is on the floor across from him, using a sneaker as a pillow. Bobby squints and rubs his eyes again. God, he’s thirsty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Water,” he croaks out, stumbling into the kitchen. Molly looks up from her toast and winces. “What’s that look for?” He pulls out a chair and collapses into it before his legs give out beneath him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly bites her lip, regarding him carefully, but gets him a glass of water. “You look like shit, Robs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never been clear on why Molly apparently needs to call him by a different nickname than literally everyone else in the world, but it’s a familiar little intimacy that makes him smile. Even when she’s judging him, she sounds sweet about it. “Feel like it, too,” he answers. “And there’s cereal on my hand. Fuck.” He stares at it, blinking. “I need… a shower,” he says. It comes out as a mumble. His lips aren’t cooperating very well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet.” Molly pushes her toast across the table towards him. “You want this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby’s stomach protests just looking at it. “No thanks. You finish it.” He downs half the glass and scrunches up his face, feeling sick again. What the hell did he do last night? “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly coughs awkwardly. “Uh.” She taps her fingers on the table. “Okay, look, Robs-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did I take.” It comes out flatter than intended. He can’t summon anything through the utter, piercingly penitent numbness dropping through his stomach. Molly just fidgets. “Molls, seriously, what the hell did I take?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nobody blames you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Molly, I swear to fucking God-” His breath is coming in short, but he can’t really feel it. Everything feels removed, like he’s been ripped back away from himself, watching this happen from afar. Like he’s out of control. Like last night. He must have been out of control last night. “What did I do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly gives him a tight smile. “You weren’t feeling great,” she starts, and the self-hatred is already rising in his throat. “All moody and stuff. Something happened with Luke?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby’s stomach flips. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, you didn’t wanna talk about it last night either,” Molly replies. He takes another sip of water, the dread making it taste like dust on his tongue. “Ollie just… he wanted to help you feel better. He didn’t really think you’d say yes. He kind of figured you’d just yell at him and smoke a joint on the back porch until you relaxed.” She shrugs, kind of hopelessly. “You didn’t…” she sighs. “You didn’t do anything awful, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby stares at her blankly. His lungs feel sharp, like razors have grown out of his ribs, but his breath won’t come. He opens his mouth once, twice, trying to say something, anything, but the words won’t come, and he stumbles up to his feet. His body pitches unsteadily. One uncoordinated hand sweeps the glass off the table, but the crash is barely audible over the rushing in his ears. Molly is on her feet, reaching for him, saying something. Bobby shakes his head. Shakes it again. It hurts his temple to do that. Her eyes are wide. Scared. She’s scared. He reaches up to grasp at his own hair, but she flinches at the movement and his hand freezes, shaking in midair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s saying his name, but he can’t hear it. He can’t hear anything except this stupid, highpitched buzzing, slicing through his brain so intensely he thinks it’ll explode. There’s pressure in his throat, too much pressure in his throat, and he can’t breathe, he can’t even move, he can’t even blink, all he can do is stand here in the kitchen, shaking in time to the thrumming of his heartbeat, leftover adrenaline driving his body into extremity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand touches his shoulder and he rips away, staggering into the counter. “Bobby!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fucking touch me!” he spits. Molly has backed up, glancing between him and Patrick with wide eyes. “Don’t- don’t fucking- get away! Get away from me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, calm down-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! No, no, no, no-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick reaches for him again and he stumbles again, almost crumbling to the floor. His back slams into the doorframe. Patrick’s eyes widen. “Shit, Bobby, just come here,” he says. His voice is soothing. So soothing. So calm. He’s trying to help. Trying to calm him down. He needs to calm down. He’s… he’s just being overrun, his system is still spiked, and shit, did he binge or not? How much did he even take?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter, though, because however much it was, he’s still here with shaky legs and short breaths, backed up into the doorframe with fear in his cousins’ eyes. He still took it. He still fucked up. He’s still a failure. His eyes sting sharply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick’s face crumbles. “Bobby…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get away from me,” he chokes out again, the self-hatred running even deeper through his veins at his own trembling voice. He sounds so fucking pathetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s running before he can even catch the look on Patrick’s face, slamming the front door behind him with a crack that echoes into his bones, and he’s down the steps, and he’s running, running, running, until he can’t breathe, until his feet give out and he staggers down onto his knees on the cold floor and lets out one long, hollow breath that burns his throat into ash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His whole body aches. The silence of the dark garage echoes into his ears, flooding him with a cold numbness. His arms give out and he falls face first onto the ground with a dry sob heaving through his body. His breath is still laboured and loud. He lays there with his eyes closed until his heartbeat slows down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so fucking pathetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, he heaves himself over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t know what time it is. It’s Wednesday, though. He’s supposed to be at school. He wasn’t going to go anyway, not after his fight with Luke, but still. Another failure to toss on the list.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, Bobby feels like his entire life is just one failure after another. Fuck, even his </span>
  <em>
    <span>birth </span>
  </em>
  <span>had been a mistake. No wonder he's turned out like this. No wonder he’s the screw up laying in a dark garage on a school day, crying through bloodshot eyes and every vein aching from methamphetamine. Fucking meth. Who took fucking meth on a school night?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friends would be so disappointed in him. Not that they know. They’ll never know if he can help it. He’s not… he knows he’s not meant to have things like this. He’s not meant to have friends and guitars and memories. Passions. Dreams. He scoffs to himself, closing his eyes. Dreams. He was never dreaming. All he’s ever done is delude himself and call it an aspiration. He’d never make it on the music scene, anyway. He’s gonna end up in some stupid crumbling house in some stupid crazy city, doing meth on Tuesday nights and sleeping on sneakers and waiting to die. Just like his mom, just like his dad, just like Zach and Patrick and Molly and everyone else in this stupid family he never would have asked for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to hate them. He wants to hate them so fucking bad. He wants to run back to the house and scream until his lungs give out and tear the place apart board by board until it comes falling down on him and on them all. He wants to rip </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself </span>
  </em>
  <span>apart, limb by limb, bone by bone, until he’s nothing and no one and he never has to feel like this again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to feel this. He’d chosen to do it. He’d chosen to take the pipe from Ollie. He’d chosen to cope with his shit like this. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to hate them. He hates himself so much for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby sighs out, long and deep and slow, opening his eyes again. The ceiling spins above him. He needs food, probably, but he can’t muster up any motivation to get it, so he just hums through a scratchy throat and pretends he can hear Luke’s singing until he passes out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world is a cruel, cold place, Bobby decides, because he’s shivering and he still can’t breathe right. Is he still panicking? Is this a panic attack? Would a cigarette help? Maybe. Nicotine is calming, right? He can’t really think straight, but that sounds right. It would stink up the garage, though, and Alex hates the smell of cigarette smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Wilson,” he mutters to himself, sarcasm lacing his tone. “Can’t you deal with your problems like a man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his experience, though, all men do with their problems is shoot the solution up their arms. That’s the whole issue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby blinks a few times. Rubs his arms. Pushes himself up. It’s still dark and cold, but there’s enough light leaking under the door for him to squint at his watch and make out the time. “Ah, shit,” he mutters. It’s nearly 4. The guys are probably on their way to the garage already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the twenty minutes it takes for the door to open, Bobby manages to wriggle his way under the sofa they’d shoved up against the back wall. It’s cramped and suffocating and there was a spring digging into his back, but he’s hidden, and that’s good enough. When the door’s been heaved up, there’s a moment of tense silence. He holds his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, shit,” comes Alex’s voice, and Bobby breathes out in relief. They don’t see him. “I could’ve sworn he’d be here.” Internally, Bobby winces. He’s supposed to be practicing with them today, he knows that, but he wasn’t going to be able to play like this anyway. It’s better not to be there than to fuck it up, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a groan. “Dammit!” A thump resounds above his head, and the sofa bows down, cramping him even more. The spring digs into his back painfully. “Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>asshole.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Luke.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke’s not wrong. It still stings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s supposed to be here!” Luke protests. “What, he couldn’t even give us a heads-up? Is he sick or something?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or something,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks sardonically. A little worse than a cold. Luke doesn’t need to know that, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reggie’s voice is timid. “Do you think he’s mad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At me?” Luke sounds a lot smaller all of the sudden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean…” there’s a scraping noise, and Bobby can almost envision it, Reggie standing there scuffling his feet like he always does when he’s nervous. “You guys did kinda go at it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke takes a moment to answer. “I mean. Yeah.” He groans again. “Dammit!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down, Luke,” Alex says. “He’ll calm down soon. We probably just, like, missed him today. Bobby doesn’t skip over stuff like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but-”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Stop </span>
  </em>
  <span>blaming yourself,” Reggie interrupts. “You don’t even know if that’s what’s wrong. You can ask when we see him again. Maybe he’s just running late. He’ll probably be here soon, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke doesn’t answer that. There’s a slightly awkward pause. Alex taps at his drums a few times, but the weight doesn’t shift off the sofa, and the closest Reggie comes to music is a short cough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A loud cymbal crash rolls through the garage. “Dammit!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry. I just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby screws his eyes shut, thanking God that no one had heard him yelp at the noise. His whole body is stiff. Guilt and shame and regret and anger and disgust and a thousand other things are swirling in his gut, turning every shaky breath into something toxic. He can feel the raw pain radiating across his back each time Luke shifts and scrapes the spring over his skin. The whole right side of his back is throbbing. He bruised it this morning, he thinks, falling into the door. Not the first time, but he has to grit his teeth to keep from squeaking as each beat of his heart makes the damage spasm with a deeper sting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s okay, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bobby. He’s okay, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a short, exhausted laugh. “Reggie, it was one day. He’s probably fine. He just… forgot about practice or something.” Alex pauses for a moment, then clears his throat. “Besides, he’s always been okay before. It’s not like he’s never skipped practice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, he’s never skipped practice,” Luke replies miserably. “I did it. I fucked it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luke, seriously…” Alex trails off. “He’ll be back tomorrow. We’re just stressing ourselves out like this. You guys wanna go get a snack or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a dollar showing at the really shitty movie theatre down the street,” Reggie pipes up. “We can just slack, hang today, practice tomorrow. Once Bobby’s back. It’ll be sick, come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Fine,” Luke says, after a pause. “They better be showing something good, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the door slams shut again, Bobby lets out a long breath. It still scorches his insides, but he feels less like a living trash fire, so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, he feels less like a living trash fire until he moves, and then everything comes rushing back so quickly that his vision blacks out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not a fan of this new theme.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure how long it’s been when he comes to again, but it’s at least late afternoon, because he can’t make out his watch through the light leaking in anymore. He’s still halfway under the couch. “Good job, Bobby,” he mutters to himself. His voice is hoarse enough that even those few words sting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, he’s changed his mind. He’s a huge fan of passing out. He wants to pass out again. Right now, preferably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he crawls up onto the couch. He tries curling into a ball to keep himself warm, but that stretches his back and brings every spark of pain back out in volts, so he lays flat on his stomach and stares blankly at the door. He’s shivering, he thinks. He itches for something, for a cigarette or maybe a blunt or even just, like, a hug, but he’s pretty sure if he moves again he’ll throw up, so he just lets the scratchy fabric press into his cheek, one arm dangling down onto the cold concrete.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How fucking fitting.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. fever dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He doesn’t know whose house it is that they end up in, but he stumbles up the stairs with Reggie and Alex’s arms firm around him and Luke’s hands steady against his back. The bed is soft when he tumbles into it, and that’s all that matters.<br/>-<br/>or; Bobby cries, passes out, and cries again ft. boys with problems.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me, a hyperfixating mess: posts chapter one<br/>me, a hyperfixating mess, three hours later:</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There is a brief moment, when he wakes up and sees that it’s almost noon, where he contemplates going to school. Dragging himself up off this musty couch, pulling his fingers through his hair, and strolling through the doors with his head held as high as possible from rock bottom. But the moment he tries to stand, his legs give out from under him and he goes sprawling face first across the floor, so. He changes his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He falls asleep again. He doesn’t know how long. The guys don’t come by again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noon has rolled its way around again when he finally caves, digging through his pockets. He’s pulled himself up so that his back is against the sofa, letting his head loll back onto it when it feels light. His vision keeps dancing in and out. Exhaustion, probably. Or the lack of food. Or the way his tongue has gone dry with dehydration. Or the way his shivering has picked up, and he feels dizzy, and his thoughts are all jumbled, and okay, he’s pretty sure he has a fever. It’s like he played russian roulette and every chamber was loaded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cigarette smoke is too crisp for his mouth. The heat cracks the dry skin open, and Bobby just wrinkles his nose, taking another drag. It’s acrid. Tastes worse than usual. How long’s it been since he brushed his teeth? He decides not to think about it. He’ll just hate himself more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next time he passes out, the cigarette drops onto his hand. The shot of pain jolts him awake, and the jolt of his body tears at his back, and his back protests in a swell of agony that wipes his vision out again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, thank God.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His whole body is wracked with trembling. He can hardly breathe through it; every gasp catches in his throat, rattling slowly, painfully through his chest. He resorts to huffing in and out through his nose, but it's stuffed up from the tears that keep streaming from his eyes unbidden. He hates crying. Hates it. Hates everything, right now, and hates himself, because he keeps flicking his lighter on and off and aching for a pipe in his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His blood is broken, he thinks hazily. It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. Everything's a mess of static and recurring torment and lightheadedness and his blood is broken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe his blood will all go out his ears if he lays here long enough. Maybe he'll breathe it out through his splintered, stinging throat. Maybe he'll just keep shivering until his whole body shatters apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's how mistakes die. Maybe he won't mind. God knows nobody else will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes up twisting, a shout caught in his chest that tears his lungs in two but only comes out as a squeak. He's not sure what he's dreaming about, but Luke's  phantom singing echoes in his ears as he falls back asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to light another cigarette and forgets to pull it out before he flicks the lighter on. He's never cried like that before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holy shit!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby twitches, his body protesting the movement immensely. The noise floods through his senses with a vicious, rugged scraping that leaves his head echoing painfully. He means to scream. It comes out as whimper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holy shit," the voice says again, a little quieter this time, full of something like fear. "Bobby, oh my God."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby! That's him. He's Bobby. He cracks an eye open as much as he can, almost shrieking at the light bolting into his vision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"L'ke?" he manages. It's clumsy, it snaps in the middle, but it's there, and that's a bit more than expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand drifts over his forehead. Luke's face swells in his vision. "Hey, buddy." Bobby reaches out clumsily, fingers weakly clasping at the air until Luke slips his into them. "Hey, hey. Shh. It's okay." The hair is brushed off his forehead. "Just breathe, Bobby."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“L’ke,” he says, a little more insistently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Yeah, it’s Luke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby shakes his head as well as he can, screwing his eyes shut. “No. No. G-go-” he breaks off into a fit of coughing that tears his throat to shreds. “Go ‘way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke’s hand in his squeezes. “Yeah, that’s definitely not happening. Jesus, Bobby, the hell happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby shrugs weakly. “Ollie?” he tries, and then laughs breathlessly. “No. No’ Ollie. No’ his fault.” His face crumples up again. He can’t breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke pulls away, and there’s a silence in the rest of the garage. Or he thinks there is, until he focuses enough to make out the whispers being exchanged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s Ollie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno, but look at him-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s got a fever.” That’s Luke. His voice is shaking. “And my hand, look-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reggie’s voice arches high. “Is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>blood?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know! I mean, yes, but I don’t know where it came from, he’s just bleeding-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s burnt, too, look at that. He was smoking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a cigarette on the floor, Reg, how the fuck-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke interrupts them. “Okay! Okay. Let’s just… let’s calm down, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down?” Alex hisses. “Calm down how? Bobby is fucking- is he even conscious? How long has he </span>
  <em>
    <span>been </span>
  </em>
  <span>here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby’s arms feel like lead, but he feels like he ought to contribute somehow, so he forces up three trembling fingers and holds them up weakly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A soft touch ghosts over his hand, nudging against his clasped fingers until they’ve unfurled enough to slip in between. Bobby doesn’t get his hand held very often. It’s nice. “What’s that mean, Bobby?” Alex asks. His other hand comes up to smooth Bobby’s hair back. “Three what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh… d’ys.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Days?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby nods. Sort of. He tries to nod. “Feel bad,” he adds. “Wanna sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can hear the shakiness of Alex’s next breath. “Just… just stay awake for a minute longer, okay? We need to get you somewhere safer.” Bobby cringes. “Hey, none of that. Just keep your eyes open for me, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanna.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you don’t wanna,” and is he imagining the beginnings of a sob in Alex’s voice? “But I need you to try, okay? For me. Just keep your eyes open.” Bobby doesn’t speak- his throat feels salty and raw, like a festering wound- but he reluctantly nods, peeling his eyes back open. “Thank you. Thank you.” If he squints, he thinks he can catch tears on Alex’s face, but that’s ridiculous. Alex doesn’t cry. Especially not over Bobby. “Reggie, come help me out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reggie and Alex heave Bobby up between them, supporting his weight. Reggie stumbles under it for a moment, but nobody falls, and the three of them limp out of the garage together. Luke closes it behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walk is excruciating. Bobby’s vision goes black every step he takes, but he keeps upright, and he keeps breathing, and he keeps his eyes open. Alex keeps murmuring reassurances in his ear, things like, “Come on, just a little further,” and “You’re okay, I’ve got you,” and “Just keep your eyes open, Bobby, it’s gonna be okay.” His voice keeps cracking, though, and Bobby’s vision keeps shorting out, so none of it’s very convincing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know whose house it is that they end up in, but he stumbles up the stairs with Reggie and Alex’s arms firm around him and Luke’s hands steady against his back. The bed is soft when he tumbles into it, and that’s all that matters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you to keep your eyes open,” is the first thing he hears when he blinks awake again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a smacking noise. “Give him a minute,” Reggie says, sounding uncharacteristically bossy. Alex huffs in reply, but doesn’t say anything else. The bed dips down, and a hand slides under Bobby’s shoulders, wrapping him up in a secure hold before pulling him up. He hisses at the feeling of his bruised back pressing against the headboard. Reggie clicks his tongue. “Where’s it hurt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back,” Bobby croaks out. “Bruised it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we saw.” Alex’s voice is suspiciously thick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby finally heaves his eyes open as Reggie pulls a pillow behind his back for him to lean against. His arm stays securely around Bobby’s shoulders. He’s sitting on top of the covers, but he’s wearing his pajamas, which seems… strange. Wasn’t it noon a minute ago? “What time is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex checks his watch. He’s sitting at the end of the bed, curled up in a pair of sleep shorts and a big UCLA sweatshirt. “About eight.” His eyes are red, but he keeps them diverted towards the covers, so Bobby can’t tell if his face is wet or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby goes to answer, but Reggie shoves a bottle of water against his lips before he can. “Drink. Now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, Reg.” The door closes softly as Luke steps into the room. “Be gentle with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby huffs. “Don’t need you to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up, Bobby,” they chorus. Did they practice that? He shudders, but obeys. Reggie doesn’t let him hold the water bottle, but he does let him at least wrap his fingers around it, which makes him feel a little less like an infant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke settles on his other side. “So,” he starts. Reggie, dissatisfied with Bobby’s water intake, shushes him, and they have to wait until he pulls it away. Bobby swipes at his lips with a scowl. Luke sighs pointedly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“So,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he says again. “You gonna tell us what happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby picks at the blanket. Reggie slaps his hands away. “Is no an option?” His voice is coming out clearer. It’s easier to breathe now that he’s not shuddering with phantom chills within an inch of his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely not,” Luke answers firmly. Bobby scowls at the covers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bobby, please.” His head snaps up at the crack in Alex’s voice. He’s drawn down into his hoodie, staring out at them with wide eyes, and fuck- his face </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>wet. “You don’t know-” he lets out a shuddering breath, curling up a little tighter. “You don’t know how scared we were. How scared </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> was. You… you really freaked us out, man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby laughs tiredly, letting his head fall into Luke’s shoulder. He doesn’t feel like holding it up anymore. “‘Course I do. Find my mom like that all the time,” he says, and feels them all stiffen. “Dunno what went wrong, exactly. Guess it was the running, or something. Or just a bad trip. Or maybe it’s always like that, I don’t know. I’ve never done meth bef-” he cuts himself off, because oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that’s right, they don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but the damage is done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Reggie’s voice is more like a squeak. Alex is staring up at him with wide eyes, and Bobby squeezes his shut, feeling his stomach turn. Luke has gone entirely rigid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean-” he doesn’t have any excuses ready, so he just whines and hides in Luke’s shoulder instead. “I just wanted to feel better,” he mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke’s voice is too calm. Luke is never calm. “You thought… meth… would make you feel better? The fuck kind of crackhead logic is that?” Bobby flinches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luke-” Reggie starts, but he gets cut off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, don’t start. What, he thinks he can- can just get away with fucking- doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>meth </span>
  </em>
  <span>and passing out in the garage and scaring us like that?” He’s shaking. Bobby slowly pulls away, but Luke’s hand comes up and tangles in his hair, pulling him back into his hold. “If you feel bad, you tell someone,” he says. His voice is stern. “You tell </span>
  <em>
    <span>us. </span>
  </em>
  <span>We’re… we’re your friends, man. We want to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby squirms until he can look up at Luke’s face. “I did tell someone. I told Ollie. And then he gave me meth.” He shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but who’s Ollie?” Alex pipes up. “Is he, like, your dealer or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby tries not to laugh, but it comes out anyway. It breaks off into another coughing fit. “Imagine if I had to pay him,” he says once it calms down. He’s not supposed to tell them this, he distantly remembers, but he’s too hazy and comfortable to remember why. “He’s my cousin. Does it all the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the time?” Reggie asks. He’s scooted closer to Bobby’s side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Runs in the family,” Bobby mumbles, eyes falling shut as he curls up into Luke. He reaches out blindly for Reggie’s hand. He hasn’t had his hand held a lot in his life. He wants that comfort again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a stiff silence in the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes snap open. “Fuck. Wasn’t supposed to say that,” he blurts out, pulling away from them. “I don’t- I-” he squeezes his eyes shut. Curls in on himself. Grits his teeth through the twist of agony that goes down his back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m a fucking failure, I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, wait-” A hand lands on his shoulder. “Bobby. Hey. Come here, okay?” Luke’s voice is gentler than he expected. “Just- just come here. Come back.” He pulls Bobby back into his side slowly, tucking him securely between he and Reggie. Both sets of arms wrap around him snugly. He blinks, confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex crawls up, sort of halfway in Reggie’s lap. Reggie huffs, but Alex just smacks him in the chest and then reaches up to brush Bobby’s bangs aside. “You’re a fucking idiot.” Bobby winces. “I mean that in the most loving way,” Alex adds, ignoring the glare Luke has fixed him with. “You’re my best friend. But you’re still a fucking idiot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Alex says, calmly cutting him off. “I’m not done.” Bobby falls silent again. “You get why we’re mad, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I fucked up,” Bobby snaps. “I know. I get it. It’s my whole fucking life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes gently. “No.” His voice is softer. “We’re mad because you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hid </span>
  </em>
  <span>from us.” Bobby rolls his eyes. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare brush this off. I know you’re all stoic and cool and too good for the sappy shit, but not this time, okay? Do you even know how I felt? It’s been three days. Three goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>days, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then I find you passed out in the garage, because you were fucking hiding. I thought you were dead. I walked in and my heart- my heart almost stopped, because I thought my best friend was dead. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>why I’m mad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not your best friend,” Bobby says numbly. Alex flinches backwards like he’s been slapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reggie’s grip tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean? Of course you’re our best friend,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s a fact. Like Bobby hasn’t spent five years as a fourth wheel to their dream team trio, wishing and waiting to be allowed into their circuit, wishing and waiting to become somebody worth caring about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I yelled at Luke,” he says. Reggie’s face wrinkles. “I’m not- you’re mad. You’re mad at me, right?” He twists his head to look at Luke. “You’re mad. I was mean to you. You don’t like me anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke blinks. “We got into one fight,” he says, sounding as confused as Bobby feels. “Of course I still- what? I’m not mad anymore.” Bobby just stares at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s grip settles back on his shoulder, steady and gentle. “Bobby,” he starts, and then swallows hard. His eyes are shiny again. “You’re our </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend. </span>
  </em>
  <span>We care about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, but-” Bobby scowls at the blankets. “That’s not- I fucked up. I did a bad thing. I yelled at Luke-” Luke opens his mouth, but Bobby keeps talking. “-and I did meth, and I said I wouldn’t, and I hid from you, and Alex is crying, and I don’t really know why, because you guys barely even </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, which is fine because I don’t really like me either, but I fucking- I fucked up! I fucked up so bad, and I’m such a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot!</span>
  </em>
  <span> And- and I’m just like them, I’m just like them-” he doesn’t know when he started crying, but his words are choked, suffocating in his heaving breaths. “I’m just a stupid fucking worthless freak, I’m just such a goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>failure, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I’m not even good at music, I don’t know why you let me in the band anyway, and I’m just gonna end up in that stupid house for the rest of my life and I’m gonna be just like Dad, and just like Zach, and just like Kristen and Jim and everyone else, just a stupid fucking failure-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shakes his shoulders. “Bobby, shut the fuck up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna die when I’m like, twenty two,” Bobby continues, a slightly hysterical laugh twisting out through his throat. “Or maybe just, like, right now, maybe I should just fucking die now-”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Bobby!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops this time. He’s shaking, he notices. So is Alex. Their gazes are locked on each other, equally wide-eyed. Bobby swallows hard. He’s never been looked at like that. There’s a kind of fear on Alex’s face that makes his chest go hollow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke’s hand rubs up and down his arm. “Breathe,” he says. He tugs and Bobby moves easily, falling into his chest. Luke’s chin settles on top of his head. “That’s it. Breathe. We’ve got you. We’ve got you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t ask him everything, thank God. But they fall asleep holding him like that, and when Bobby jerks awake in the middle of the night, Alex catches his face in his hands and says, “You’re safe, okay? You’re safe. We’ve got you,” and Bobby lets himself breathe. Lets himself fall back asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the morning, Luke and Alex go to get breakfast, and Reggie pulls Bobby into his side. “If you ever die on me, I’ll fucking kill you,” he says plainly. “I mean it. So don’t even think about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby doesn’t agree, necessarily, but he says, “If you ever die on me, I’ll kill God,” because it at least gets a laugh out of Reggie. Out of his friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friend. That sounds nice.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>that was a trip . good times . anyway, lemme know what you thought!!!!! might dabble more in this universe in the future... who knows. could be fun!</p><p>thank you so much for reading!! i'm on tumblr @brobotfanpage if you wanna come say hi!!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mhm so. that is a thing i wrote (: chapter 2 will come. honestly probably obscenely soon but i wanna make cheese n mac before i write it lmao</p><p>please comment. unless you're going to tell me i'm a terrible person. i already know that. but if you liked it, please comment!! also i love you!! i hope you enjoyed!!</p><p>come hmu on tumblr @bobbywilsonsupremacy i need more friends in this fandom ekfhierghirg</p></blockquote></div></div>
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